Demonium: Of Gold and Wine
by castielapplepie
Summary: AU. RoBul. For a plain man wine,gold,pleasure and whatnot are something more than unreachable. It's degrading and troublesome.His passion relies on the finest forms of literature and on the daily tea he drinks. Imagine how would a guy like him feel if he ended up in a 'sinful' lifestyle,surrounded by persons whose morals are...nonexistent. Will he even make it through in one piece?
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

I...**  
**

Can hear the violins echoing in the vast marble hallway. The sound vibrates through the frozen, wintry air. Soft steps snap on the hard floor-one, two, three-high heels, the rustle of long rich dresses, delicate giggles and sweet nothings whispered. This is, probably, a masquerade ball, but I cannot know for sure, for my eyes have lost the ability to see. Where am I? The party seems to fade away, like a memory, like a dream, like a mere fantasy.

Vanilla, cinnamon and cigarettes...the scent fills the air, fills my lungs, burning my nostrils and my throat with their intoxicating aroma. I've always been fond of vanilla, be it only fragrance or taste. It reminds me of childhood, of ice cream in summer days, of pudding late in the night, when sleep refuses to visit my exhausted body. Cinnamon, on the other hand, is the odour I abhorred as long as I can remember. The dusty scent poisoned my nose, my lungs..it infiltrated everywhere. Cinnamon is bitter and exotic, cinnamon is a foreign smell. Whenever I am angry, bitter or depressed, the blasted flavour and smell overtake my senses. I cannot get rid of it. But in the case of cigarettes...this is something else. This addicting and malevolent fragrance is a new passion of mine, something that crept deep down into my being recently. It calms me with its spicy aura, it makes me think of home, although my parents never smoked. This is another kind of home. A home I discovered in my late twenties, when I was no longer mama's boy, when their cold grave would be the only welcoming that I could receive from them.

It's cold. I..wish I could cover my body with something. _Move. Move! MOVE! _But my body refuses to do so. The wind is whistling through an unseen hole, it sings the hollow song of loneliness, of stillness, it sings for someone who has no ears to hear, for someone that is deaf or for someone who cannot understand loneliness. This song is not for me, but I hear it and I am the only one who acknowledges this. My heart aches terribly inside my chest. But if it aches it means that is still there..right? I'm lying in something wet. What is this...? Is it water?

Why can't I move?

My head gets dizzier. How did I managed to get in this position? I try to recollect the day before, but all I can remember is having dinner with **him**. Is this a nightmare? Why can't I wake up? Also...is it even day or night? The taste of black grapes returned in my mouth, freshly and slightly bitter. Last night I had a black grape with my neighbour, despite the fact that I strongly dislike those grapes. After that, I lost my memory.

It's cold and dark...My head is getting more and more numb second by second. I can't feel the strange mix of scents, nor can I hear the wind whistling through the unseen hole. I might...


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

**Beige walls and black coffee**

_"Let the rain wash all the pain of yesterday..."_

* * *

It was a cold, rainy day of April, the day my life started to fall apart. Sure, life has its ups and downs, but that day was different. Maybe because of the gloomy grey sky, or because that it was spring so it was supposed to be all warm and pleasant, when, in reality, the wind was cold, harsh, forcing humans to take their winter coats and animals to crawl between buildings in order to warm up. Or maybe just because my ordinary life had been messed by fate which decided that I had been ignored for too long.

My name is Aleksander Balakov, I am a man in my late twenties, twenty eight to be more precise. I am a man in my late twenties, twenty eight to be more precise. I am not stunningly tall, nor am I shamefully short, my height being 1.70 m. I am not well-built and, because of that, people usually mistake me for a teenager or, anyway, someone way younger. The fact that I have a baby face does not help me in the very least. Fair skinned and calm looking, people usually don't bother with my person too much. In this country, if you have skin too pale, you're being stared at as if you are not a normal person, but some sort of a looser or who-knows-what-kind-of-creature. The only thing that apparently saves my looks, at least according to their beliefs, is the dark green colour of my eyes. They are the colour of a healthy, secular forest, the kind of colour which makes many believe that is noble, rich and delicate shade of green. Truth is, I've heard this from someone a while ago, but never paid attention to them. Ebony locks cover my forehead, the colour giving me a completely serious appearance. Long ago, someone told me that I would have been such a beauty, if I was blond. I remember frowning deeply but saying nothing. Since then...you could say that blond guys kind of piss me off. I don't really know if it has anything with their hair colour or it's just their attitude- it's probably a bit of both- but, oh well..

I am working at a bookshop in the old centre of the city, between a nice cafe and a restaurant. I've been working there for more than five years and I must say that it is, somehow, pleasant. The inside is was refined, with beige wallpaper and tall rosewood bookshelves packet with all sorts of books- from teenage fantasy to great works like "Hamlet" or "The Great Gatsby" to science and, why not, music. Of course, at some point it gets a bit boring, but that can be fixed with a cup of coffee or tea or with friendly, book-loving costumers. I didn't especially dream to work at a bookstore, but the idea sparked my interest and I asked myself "_why not?". _

"Balakov, we need to talk," **that **was my boss. For some unknown reason, he has a strong dislike towards me, although he never calls me names or truly bullies me. Instead of that he is plain cold, glaring at me occasionally through his glasses. Sometimes he puts me in awkward positions, but nothing too serious either. I don't even know what to think of him, truth to be told, his behavior doesn't even bother me that much.

"Sure, sir," I said in Romanian, of course. You know what they say: _When in Rome, do as the Romans do. _Also, it would be pretty creepy if I suddenly started going all Bulgarian on them. After all, I was the stranger, the intruder. Their country, their laws. You can't go there, expect them to welcome you, hire you if you keep talking in some strange foreign language. Because, believe, Bulgarian and Romanian aren't alike. No. I stood up and followed him, both silent as he had nothing to talk about. In front of out door, there was a girl with brown long hair, wavy at the ends, sparkling yellow-green eyes and a wide smile on her lips.

"Aleksander Balakov, this is Miss Erzébet Héderváry, Miss Héderváry, this is Aleksander Balakov," he introduced us, before we shook our hands. She wore a knee length dress under the white trench coat. And she had no make up on, which was perfect, because she looked so beautiful natural. "Starting today you are to teach her the ropes," and my smile immediately faltered. Was he...firing me? I nodded and turned to look at her. She gave me an apologetic look but I waved my hand in the air as if it was nothing.

"Sure, sir," I replied.

"Good. As expected from you, Balakov," he said and left the store. I watched his tall, black clothed figure getting lost in the crowd, his black umbrella standing up proudly against the merciless rain drops that kept falling from the sky since early in the morning.

"I-" she started but I immediately caught her off, ungluing my gaze from the window.

"It's ok," I said, my voice nonchalant, low, vibrating in the air and getting lost in the harsh wind of the outside when the door opened to reveal a wet-from-head-to-toe costumer. I could see with corner of my eyes that she still had that worried look on her face. Tch. I bet that Claude, my boss, didn't even tell her the whole truth about the job. She seems like a kind person, but, oh well, one can never know. "Do you want me to take care of this one or..?"

"It's fine. I worked in a bookstore in the past," I raised and eyebrow. Then why show her the ropes? "I didn't mention that in my Curriculum Vitae," as if she knew what I had been thinking about a couple of moments ago. I frowned and she gave me a mysterious smile which only made me frown deeper. _Can this day get any stranger? _That's the kind of question that we all ask at some point in our lives, but shortly after that we find out that the answer is _Yes, it can. _Then the second day we say it again. "I used to help my grandpa with his bookstore when I was younger so yeah.." _So Claude didn't even know you were practically an expert in this domain, but still..he chose you._

"I see," I mumble. "Then should I leave it to you?"

"You don't want to spend the rest of the month here?" she sounded a bit surprised. Of course I wanted, but what was the point in extending my agony? I shook my hand in disapproval. I opened my mouth to word my feelings, but closed it shortly after. What's the point in whining about it to her, to anyone? I turned around, took my things, which weren't many because I am not the kind of person who likes to carry around stuff like some sort of a donkey. After putting my scarf and my jacket on, I turned to take a last glance of the store that has been like a refuge of mine the past few years.

"Goodbye, Miss Héderváry!" I said, waving my hand slightly as I stepped outside. I opened my umbrella.

"See you around!" she cheerfully shouted from the other end of the store. _I highly doubt that. _But I nodded and, just like Claude, faded in the crowd of Braşov, letting the cold drops and harsh almost wintry wind wash away all the pain, or at least indulging myself to become one with the glacial weather phenomenas.

* * *

5PM.

I was sitting in a small, quiet cafe, looking at my own reflection in the coffee cup pitifully. I sighed and ran a hand through my pitch black hair, ruffling it slightly, suddenly not carrying if it got messy or not. "Moonlight sonata" played in the cafe, a rare thing in Romania, because, for some reason, most of the people here flinch, frown or stare strangely at you if you say something about classical music. If I am to be honest, I find classical music to my liking, along with a good book and a cup of hot something, be it mint tea or coffee.

Until that point, I had had a normal, plain, ordinary -you name it- life. I hadn't been the popular kid in high school, but I hadn't been the in the centre of dislike either. I had had a few friends, none of them really close, a few enemies as well who had liked to pull pranks on me or simply tease me, but nothing serious. No hardcore bullies. No best friends. I hadn't been the smartest kid in my class, but I hadn't been slacking off either. I wasn't poor, neither rich. The only thing that really made me different was that I liked to read and I was mostly pretty quiet. Until I got angry. And sometimes I would've acted on a whim, but well..I was young back then. I went to college, my life was the same. I even had dated a few times, but they hadn't lasted too long.

Before Claude Magnussen, there was another guy in charge of the bookstore. Said guy was my real employer- his name was Marius Magnussen- Claude's older brother. Unfortunately, Marius died in a car accident two years ago and Claude was forced to take over. Unlike Claude, Marius was a nice, warm and polite man. One day he even sent me to share balloons with meaningful, optimistic messages to random people on the streets. It had been a very heart-warming experience. I remember him asking me how I felt at the end of that day and I couldn't even express my happiness in words. He just laughed and patted my back. I sighed.

To be honest, I was a bit surprised that Claude endured me for two years.

**_BANG! BANG!_**

My gaze shot up immediately from the cup of hot dark liquid to look at the wide opened door. Through relatively thick smoke I could see a tall, male figure standing at the door. He started yelling something, but I certainly paid no attention anymore.


End file.
